The Most Dangerous Games
by dumbledearme
Summary: Panem. 74th Annual Hunger Games. Bellamy volunteers to save his sister. Clarke is taken unjustly. The cruelty eats her from inside out. The lack of morality turns his blood to rage. And someone needs to make Ava Paige pay. Welcome to this world and may the odds be ever in your favor.
1. Clarke I

Hey, my babes

This is a crossover between Hunger Games, The 100, Divergent and Maze Runner (mostly the first two), so I need you to pay attention:

1) Clarke and Bellamy will get to go to the 74th Hunger Games to do some damage.

2) Ava Paige is the President of Panem as of now.

3) There are 24 Districts instead of 12 and each sends one tribute to the games.

4) Panem is surrounded by a giant wall (the border) and no one knows for sure what's beyond it.

5) Don't worry, John Murphy, our Messiah, will appear eventually to bring shit down.

6) The most important thing I might have to say: _enjoy it._

* * *

Clarke was up with the sun, a habit she had recently picked up. In District 5 people tended to sleep in. But not her. Not anymore. Not on Reaping day. Not when she knew she was going to be sentenced to death. A few weeks had passed since she'd made that terrible mistake of judgement that would now cost her her life.

She'd been such a fool. To have believed in the goodness of people. In the inexistente goodness of people.

Clarke rolled into her boots. They supported her. They fitted perfectly on her feet and no one else's. Her brother, Caleb, was still asleep beside her. She had never woken him up, not since she had started that, which was sort of the point.

Her game was stealth. Without absolute silence and careful movements, she'd have nothing; she'd end up dead.

Caleb had had a similar plan back when he was also part of the reaping. His training wasn't nearly as rigorous though. Guess he never knew for sure he'd be picked as a tribute.

She glanced back at him. She wouldn't be seeing him after today. She really should wake him up and hug him, and think of something wise to say. But what? There was nothing to be said. How could she tell him? How could she begin to explain that there was more than death outside the borders? Especially when she knew it would mean his life as well as hers?

A little knot of anxiety bundled in her stomach, forcing her to breath superficially. Fighting had never been her strongest suit. Whenever they had mandatory training days in school, she'd always struggled through them, much preferring to stay out of it, waiting to patch the other kids up. Because of that, she had always been singled out.

Clarke pulled her jacket on and her hair back, and got out of the bedroom. The kitchen was silent and empty this morning. She walked right pass it and out of the back door. She breathed in the cold morning air and let the silence surround her.

Life was only this peaceful at times like this. Before people got up. The city went to bed and she could live inside her head. The rising sun washed the entire world in gold. She took another deep breath, inhaling the gold light, and started walking up the road.

Their neighborhood was on the very outskirts of their little section of town. The road stopped at her house, halfway up their hill. Beyond there was nothing but more hills until the fence, and that was where she was spending her mornings.

Back in the day, used to be at the children's hospital. How she adored helping them, taking care of the ones nobody had time for. And now she didn't have time for them either.

Clarke stopped short of the wire fence. It was electrified, but there was this small part that had been hit by a tree log and if Clarke was careful enough she could walk on top of it without touching the fence. The Peacekeepers monitored the perimeters sometimes, but weren't that concerned with people getting out. Clarke glanced behind her one more time though before running toward the field.

Her feet slipped a few times while she ran, but she was used to these tangled roots. She adjusted herself easily. She knew this fields. Some days felt like it belonged to her. No one was out here as much as she was. No one knew it like she did.

And now it was just something else she had to lose. All because she had to go snooping through her father's things. She had to know more than she should. She couldn't leave that stuff alone. And they would kill her for it.

You're going to kill yourself before the Capitol can do it, her brother had once said. And maybe she should. It might be best for everyone. Then at least her death would be hers and not theirs. But what could she possibly do? Clarke would feel like a coward if she took her own life. It wouldn't feel right.

None of this did, really. Her name was only in that bowl three times and yet the odds were not in her favor.

No, there was only one thing she could do, and that was to make sure she was ready for everything. Anything.

Clarke was the only person of her class who had zero desire to participate in the Hunger Games. Everyone else her age considered it an honor. Even Caleb, though he'd never actually said so, appeared quite said when he turned 19 without having had the chance to prove himself. To Clarke, all it meant was a horrific death sentence.

She stretched up, cracking her back, and pulled each knee close to her chest. She'd run all the way to the trees. They were about a mile away. Probably more. She took another deep breath and pushed away from the ground with her front foot, letting it propel her forward.

Maybe she could present herself like a Career and try to get sponsors. Those were the people who stayed alive. But was it staying alive really worth it? Maybe she should just die a clean death, to go into the Arena with her head held high, showing no traces of fear.

When she reached the trees, she immediately jumped onto one and began to climb it. She'd undoubtedly have to pull this exact move in the Arena, so she practiced it whenever she could.

Clarke's foot slipped on a knot. She grimaced and pulled it back up, higher and higher, then moved her hands, pulling, fast, strong, then her other foot, higher and higher, until she could see her entire district from up there. Her breath was coming fast and heavy. Sweat started to trickle from her hairline, down her neck. Every muscle in her body ached, but this was the only time she truly knew she was alive.

She sat back against the tree to catch her breath, wishing she'd had some water this morning. She should've brought Caleb with her so they could've spend the day together before everything went wrong. Would she ever see him again?

Instead of following that line of thought, she tried to remember how fortunate she was with everything else. There was always food on her table. She had never gone to bed hungry, which was more than people in some other Districts could say. She had heard rumors that most of the people from 20 to 24 didn't have anything. Whether or not it was true, it made Clarke grateful.

Somewhere, just barely within her earshot, there was a crack of a boot snapping a branch. Loud voices follow it. Clarke stopped to listen. Her heart fluttered in her ear. Her side ached. The voices got closer.

They wouldn't see her though. She was well-hidden. These were her trees. This was her time. No one would bother her. She knew how to hide, to run, to fall. She knew how to kill and how to survive. No one would be bothering her here.

The voices got closer. Flashes of white appeared between the trees. Peacekeepers. It must be some sort of routine check. Fortunately, they came and went quite quickly.

It's time to return home, she told herself. It's time to go die.

With a last look to the clear blue sky, Clarke saw a flock of birds take off from a tree a little way away. There was still pretty things for her to witness, she realized. That in itself was already a miracle.

The square was packed by the time she got there. Her dad kissed her on the cheek before fighting his way to the front, to the stage where he took his seat. The microphone stood front and center beside the big glass bowl. Clarke turned and wiggled her way through the crowd until she was standing toward the front with the other seventeen-year-olds.

Jeanine Matthews, the escort, looked immaculate. After Clarke's father told Panem's story, she came up to the podium and said happily, "Hello." Everyone fell silent. "Welcome to District 5's Reaping for the 74th annual Hunger Games!"

The crowd roared; everyone except Clarke cheered and clapped.

"And may the odds be ever in your favor," added Jeanine putting her hand inside the glass bowl and bringing out a piece of paper. But she didn't have to read it for Clarke to know what it said. It was obvious.

Another wave of noise filled the square when her name was called. The next thing she knew, Clarke was in the pathway, walking to the stage. The sun was still up, but her circulation had stopped. She felt frozen to her soul, but she was walking, she was almost to the stage.

And the others… she could see some familiar faces. Some of them were upset, it was true, mourning their stolen chance to bring honor to their district. But what really caught her attention was the others: the ones who just glanced at her, grateful that it wasn't them walking to that stage, thanking her mentally as if she had chosen to go on their place. For them.

Such grateful looks. Such relief.

Somehow that righted everything for Clarke. Warmth and feeling and all of Clarke's senses came crashing back to her. Better her than them. Beauty was still around during times like this. And if in her situation she was still able to spot it, then maybe others would too.

There was still hope.

She heard the baffled crowd around her and welcomed whatever it was to come.

* * *

Please remember to review.

And be ready for the next chapter: _bellamy_


	2. Bellamy I

_one for her, one for him, one for you_

* * *

For him, it began between with cold, darkness and stale dusty air.

Bellamy woke up stretching out his fingers to the other side of the bed seeking Octavia's warmth but finding only emptiness. She must've had bad dreams and climbed in with their mother.

 _Of course she had._ Today was the reaping.

Bellamy propped himself up on one elbow. Octavia was curled up on her side, cocooned in their mother's body, their cheeks pressed together. With a sigh, he swung his legs off the bed and slided into his hunting boots. In the kitchen, he grabbed a perfect little goat cheese and put it carefully in his pocket as he slipped outside.

Their part of District 24, nicknamed the Seam, was usually crawling with coal miners heading out to the morning shift at this hour. But today the black cinder streets were empty. Shutters on the squat gray houses were closed. The reaping wasn't until two. May as well sleep in.

 _If you could._

Their house was almost at the edge of the Seam. Bellamy only had to pass a few gates to reach the scruffy field called the Meadow. Separating the Meadow from the woods was a high chain-link fence topped with barbed-wire loops that, in theory, was supposed to be electrified twenty-four hours a day as a deterrent to the predators that lived in the woods, but since they were lucky to get two or three hours of electricity in the evenings, it was usually safe to touch.

As soon as he was in the trees, Bellamy retrieve a bow and sheath of arrows from a hollow log. There was food out there if you knew how to find it. Bellamy's father had known and he had taught his son some before he was blown to bits in a mine explosion.

Even though trespassing in the woods was illegal and poaching carried the severest of penalties, more people would risk it if they had weapons. But most weren't bold enough to venture out with just a knife. Bellamy's bow was a rarity, crafted by his father. He could made good money selling them, but if the officials found out he'd be publicly executed for inciting a rebellion. Most of the Peacekeepers would turn a blind eye to the few of them who hunt because they were as hungry for fresh meat as anybody else. But the idea that someone might be arming the Seam would never have been allowed.

Anyway, Bellamy thought if he had to choose between dying of hunger and a bullet in the head, the bullet would be much quicker.

When younger, he had scared his mother half to death with the things he would blurt out about District 24, about the people who ruled their country. Eventually he understood the danger in which he was putting his family and learned to hold his tongue. To do his work quietly. To keep his head down. To never call attention to himself.

Not five minutes later, Octavia appeared, red cheeked. She always followed him there. Bellamy felt the muscles in his face relaxing as the both of them climbed the hills to their favorite place, a rock ledge overlooking a valley. They sat down together and Bellamy smiled, "I wondered how long it would take you."

She made him a face. "Why don't you ever wake me up? You know I want to come too."

He shrugged. "You should sleep while you can."

"I can sleep when I'm dead," she joked. He didn't like it. "Oh, Bell. I remember a time when you had a sense of humor. Now you only smile here in the woods. _If_ you ever smile."

Bellamy didn't say anything. How could he? How to explain to her he barely had anything left to smile about?

"You forgot this," she added with a teasing smile. Octavia held up a loaf of bread. "Mom baked this for us. For today. I mean, fine bread like this is for special occasions only. I think she might've wished me luck even, if she wasn't still sleeping."

"Well, we all feel a little closer today, don't we?" he say, not even bothering to roll his eyes. Then he pulled out the cheese.

Her expression brightened at the treat. "That you did not forget, uh? We'll have a real feast." Suddenly she fell into a Capitol accent. "Happy Hunger Games! And may the odds be ever in your favor!"

Octavia's sarcasm was her only defense out in the world, Bellamy had once realized. And it was okay. They had to joke about it because the alternative was to be scared out of their wits.

The food was wonderful. Everything would be perfect if this really was a holiday, if all the day off meant was roaming the mountains with Octavia, hunting for tonight's supper. But instead, they had a worst fate waiting for them.

"We could do it, you know," Octavia said quietly.

"What?" he asked.

"Leave the district. Run off. Live in the woods. You and I, we could make it."

Bellamy stared at his sister. She was only fifteen. Her skin was as dirty as his, her jet black hair fell in cascates around her face. Her fair eyes gleamed dangerously like it did every time she was plotting something crazy.

He didn't know how to respond. He never did. All of her ideas were so preposterous. The conversation felt wrong. Leave? Where would they go? Bellamy doubted the woods were that big. _They_ would find them. And punish them. Send them across the gate to the outside world, to mend for themselves out in the scorch.

"What do you want to do today?" he asked trying to change the subject.

Octavia didn't appreciate, but neither did she insist on that. "Let's fish at the lake. Get something nice for tonight," she said.

 _Tonight_. After the reaping, everyone was supposed to celebrate. And a lot of people did, out of relief that their children had been spared for another year. But one family wouldn't. One family would be trying to figure out how to survive the painful weeks to come.

Later at home, Bellamy and his mother were ready to go. But Octavia wasn't sure what to wear to her first reaping. Their mother, surprisingly, laid out one of her own lovely dresses for her.

"Are you sure?" asked Octavia.

"Of course. Let's put your hair up, too."

Bellamy watched his mother braid his sister's hair, thankful for the chance to seeing them smile.

"You look beautiful," Mother told Octavia. And she really did. She looked older. More ready for whatever it was to come.

Octavia stared at the mirror. Mom hugged her, because she knew these next few hours would be terrible for Octavia. Her first reaping. She was about as safe as she could get, since she had only entered once and Bellamy wouldn't let her take out any _tesserae_. But Octavia worried about him. That the unthinkable might happen.

Bellamy would protect Octavia in every way he could, but he was powerless against the reaping. The anguish he always felt when she was in pain welled up in his chest.

At one o'clock, they headed for the Square. Attendance was mandatory unless you were on death's door. The Square was surrounded by shops. Today, despite the bright banners hanging on the buildings, there was an air of grimness. The camera crews, perched like buzzards on rooftops adding to the effect.

People filed in silently and signed in. Fifteen through eighteen-year-olds were herded into roped areas marked off by age, the oldest in the front, the young ones toward the back. Family members lined up around the perimeter, holding tightly to one another's hands.

The space got tighter, more claustrophobic as people arrived. The square was quite large, but not enough to hold District 24's population of about eight thousand.

Bellamy found himself standing in a clump of eighteens from the Seam. They all focused their attention on the temporary stage that was set up before the Justice Building. It held three chairs, a podium and a large glass ball. Two of the three chairs were filled with the mayor and Jeanine Matthews, who was the Capitol's official escort. She went around the 24 Districts collecting the tributes for the games.

Just as the town clock struck two, the mayor stepped up to the podium and began to read that same story about Panem, the country that rose up out of the ashes of a place that was once called North America. He listed the disasters, the droughts, the storms, the fires, the encroaching seas that swallowed up so much of the land, the brutal war for what little sustenance remained. The result was Panem, a shining Capitol ringed by twenty-four districts surrounded by a large wall that kept them safe from the outside world.

"It is both a time for repentance and a time for thanks," intoned the mayor. Then he read the list of past District 24 victors. In seventy-four years, they had had exactly two. Only one was still alive: Haymitch Abernathy, a paunchy, middle-aged man, who at this moment appeared hollering something unintelligible, staggered onto the stage, and fell into the third chair.

The mayor looked distressed. Since all of this was being televised, right now District 24 was the laughingstock of Panem, and he knew it.

Irritated by the sight of Haymitch, Jeanine Matthews trotted to the podium and gave her signature, "Happy Hunger Games! And may the odds be ever in your favor!" She went on a bit about what an honor it was to be here, although everyone knew she was aching to leave.

Through the crowd, Bellamy spotted Octavia looking back at him with a ghost of a smile. One he couldn't reciprocate. He was suddenly thinking of the forty-two slips of paper with his name in that big glass ball and how the odds were not in his favor. And maybe Octavia thought the same thing because her face darkened and she turned away.

The time had come. Jeanine Matthews crossed to the glass ball with the names. She reached in, dug her hand deep into the ball, and pulled out a slip of paper. The crowd drew in a collective breath and then you could hear a pin drop.

Bellamy was feeling nauseous... and so desperately hoping that it wouldn't be him, that it wasn't his name, for the love of God, please, don't let them call him. And when Jeanine Matthews read that piece of paper... turned out it wasn't his name she'd called; just like he had wished.


	3. Bellamy II

Bellamy just stood there. It was as if every wisp of air had been knocked from his lungs and he struggled to inhale, to exhale, to do anything. For a moment there he couldn't remember his name or how to speak, completely stunned as Octavia's name bounced around the inside of his skull.

 _There must have been some mistake. This can't be happening._

She was _one_ slip of paper in thousands! Her chances of being chosen were so remote that he'd not even bothered to worry about her. Hadn't he done everything? Taken the _tesserae_ , refused to let her do the same? One slip. One slip in thousands! The odds had been entirely in her favor.

Somewhere far away, Bellamy could hear the crowd murmuring unhappily as they always did when young girls got chosen because no one considered it fair. And then he saw her, the blood drained from her face, hands clenched in fists at her sides, walking with stiff, small steps up toward the stage, passing him, bringing him back to himself.

"Stop!" The strangled cry came out of his throat, and his muscles began to move again. "Stop!"

He didn't need to shove through the crowd; the other kids made way immediately allowing him a straight path to the stage. Bellamy reach Octavia just as she was about to mount the steps. With one sweep of his arm, he pushed her behind him.

"I volunteer!" he gasped. "I volunteer as tribute!"

There was some confusion on the stage. District 24 hadn't had a volunteer in decades and the protocol had become rusty. But the truth was: they adored volunteers because they usually would put more of a fight and the show would be more entertaining.

Bellamy knew he wouldn't be refused when he saw Jeanine Matthews smile genuinely for the first time. "Lovely!" she said.

The mayor looked at Bellamy with a pained expression on his face. "Let him come forward."

Now it was Octavia's turn to come screaming hysterically. She wrapped her skinny arms around him like a vice. "No, Bell! No! You can't go!"

"O, let go," he said harshly, because this was upsetting him and he didn't want to see her cry. "Let go!"

Bellamy felt someone pulling her from his back, but he didn't turn to look. Instead he steeled himself and climbed the steps.

"Well, bravo!" gushed Jeanine Matthews. "That's the spirit of the Games, really!" She was pleased to finally have a district with a little action going on in it. "What's your name?"

He swallowed hard. "Bellamy Blake."

"I bet my buttons that was your sister. Don't want her to steal all the glory, do we? Come on, everybody! Let's give a big round of applause to our newest tribute!" trilled her.

To the everlasting credit of the people, not one person clapped. Possibly because they knew Bellamy from the Hob, or knew his father, or had encountered Octavia, who no one could help loving. So instead of acknowledging applause, Bellamy stood there unmoving while they took part in the boldest form of dissent they could manage: _silence_.

Which said _we do not agree. We do not condone. All of this is wrong._

Then something else unexpected happened. At first one, then another, then almost every member of the crowd touched the three middle fingers of their left hand to their lips and held it out to Bellamy. It was an old and rarely used gesture of their district, occasionally seen at funerals. It meant thanks. It meant admiration. It meant good-bye to someone you love.

Something shifted inside Bellamy and he thought he might actually cry in front of these people, but he was saved by Haymitch who chose this time to come staggering across the stage to congratulate him. "Look at him. Look at this one!" he hollered, throwing an arm around Bellamy's shoulders. "I like you, boy! Lots of... courage!" he said triumphantly. "More than you!" he started for the front of the stage. "More than you!" he shouted, pointing directly into a camera.

Was he addressing the audience or was he so drunk he might actually be taunting the Capitol? Bellamy never found out because just as he was opening his mouth to continue, Haymitch plummets off the stage and knocked himself unconscious.

Jeanine Matthew was trying to get the ball rolling again. "What an exciting day!" she warbled. She then asked the mayor to begin reading the long, dull Treaty of Treason as he did every year at this point, but Bellamy wasn't listening to a word.

The mayor finished the dreary Treaty of Treason and motioned for Bellamy to shake his hand. His were solid and warm, and he looked Bellamy right in the eye and gave his hand a reassuring squeeze.

Or maybe it was just a nervous spasm. Bellamy couldn't tell.

They turned back to face the crowd as the anthem of Panem played. The moment it was done, Bellamy was taken into custody. A group of Peacekeepers marched him through the front door of the Justice Building.

Once inside, he was conducted to a room and left alone. He tried to keep himself together. He couldn't afford to get upset, to leave this room with puffy eyes and a red nose. Not for his sake, not for his family's.

Octavia and his mom were allowed to see him. Bellamy reached out to Octavia and she climbed on his lap, her arms around his neck, head on his shoulder, just like she did when she was a toddler. Mother sat beside him and wrapped her arms around both her children. For a few minutes, they said nothing. Then Bellamy started telling them all the things they should remember to do now that he'd not be there to do it for them.

When he was done with instructions about fuel, and trading, and staying in school, Bellamy turned to his mother and gripped her arm, hard. "Listen to me. Are you listening to me?" She nodded, alarmed by his intensity. "You have to take care of her."

Mother's eyes found the floor. "I know. I will. I-"

"You can't clock out and leave Octavia on her own. There's no me now to keep you both alive. It doesn't matter what happens. Whatever you see on the screen. You have to promise me you'll fight through it!" His voice had risen to a shout. "Take care of her!"

"I'll be all right, Bell," said Octavia, clasping his face in her hands. "But you have to take care, too. You're so fast and brave. Maybe you can win."

He couldn't win. Octavia must've known that in her heart. The competition would be far beyond his abilities. There were kids from wealthier districts, where winning was a huge honor, who'd been trained their whole lives for this.

"Maybe," he said. At least it wasn't in his nature to go down without a fight, even when things seemed insurmountable. "Then we'd be rich as Haymitch."

"I don't care if we're rich. I just want you to come home, big brother. You will try, won't you? Really, really try?" insisted Octavia.

"Really, really try. I swear it, O." And he knew that because of her, he'd have to.

Then the Peacekeeper was at the door, signaling their time was up, and they were all hugging one another so hard it hurt and all Bellamy was saying was "I love you. I love you both." And they were saying it back and then the Peacekeeper ordered them out and the door closed.

Someone else entered the room, and when Bellamy looked up, he was surprised to see the mayor. The man stood there awkwardly, then pulled a white paper package from his jacket pocket and held it out to Bellamy: it was filled with cookies.

"Thank you," Bellamy murmured.

"I'll keep an eye on the little girl," he promised suddenly. "Make sure she's eating."

Bellamy felt some of the pressure in his chest lighten at his words. People were genuinely fond of Octavia. Maybe there would be enough fondness to keep her alive.

It was a short ride from the Justice Building to the train station, which was swarming with reporters with their insect-like cameras trained directly on Bellamy's face. He had to stand for a few minutes in the doorway of the train while the cameras gobbled up his image, then he was allowed inside and the doors closed mercifully behind him. The train began to move at once.

Bellamy was given his own chambers that had a bedroom, a dressing area, and a private bathroom with hot and cold running water, something he was definitely not used to. Jeanine Matthews told him to be ready for supper in an hour.

Bellamy took a hot shower and then put on the clothes they got for him. He followed through the narrow, rocking corridor into a dining room where Jeanine was waiting for him.

"Where's Haymitch?" he asked her.

She shrugged. "Last time I saw him, he said he'd take a nap." Bellamy thought she was actually relieved by Haymitch's absence.

The supper came in courses. Jeanine reminded him to save space, but Bellamy stuffed himself because he'd never had food like this, so good and so much.

"At least you have decent manners," she said watching him. "The one before you ate everything with his hands like a savage. It completely upset my digestion."

Bellamy remembered the boy from last year. It'd been a boy who'd never, not one day of his life, had enough to eat. And when he did, table manners were surely the last thing in his mind. Hating Jeanine for her comment, Bellamy made a point of eating the rest of his meal with his hands. Then he wiped his hands on the tablecloth.

Oh, she did not like that.

"I see," she muttered to herself. "Well, you and your mentor have a lot to learn about presentation. And about televised behavior."

Bellamy couldn't help but laugh. Jeanine made it sound like Haymitch just had somewhat rough manners that could be corrected with a few tips from her. "He was drunk. He's drunk every year. Every day, in fact."

"Yes," she hissed. "How odd you find it amusing. You know your mentor is your lifeline to the world in these Games. The one who devises you, lines up your sponsors, and dictates the presentation of any gifts. Haymitch can well be the difference between your life and your death!"

Just then, Haymitch staggered into the dining room. "Did I miss supper?" he asked in a slurred voice. Then he vomited all over the expensive carpet and fell in the mess.

"Let's see if you'll be laughing in a few days," threatened Jeanine Matthews before fleeing the room.


	4. Clarke II

The door slid open, and Clarke knew it was time to die.

Her eyes locked on the Peacekeeper's boots, and she braced for the rush of fear, the flood of desperate panic. But as she rose up slowly, she was surprised that all she felt was relief she wouldn't have to wait alone any longer.

She kept what mattered in mind: her name hadn't been drawn by chance like the others. It was a plot. They needed to get rid of her. The truth was far worse than anyone could've imagined. And even if by some miracle she survived the game, they would find a way to get rid of her for good.

Clarke took a deep breath. The Peacekeeper stepped away from the door and her father and brother walked into the room rushing to hold her in their arms.

Her dad was an amicable man. Before being made mayor of District 5, he'd been one of those scientists who are never aware of the days of the week. He'd been the one researching about life outside the borders of Panem. People didn't like that and soon they shut off his work. But he'd keep some of his stuff and Clarke had found it.

However unfortunate for her.

Now, Caleb was the perfect child. He was older than Clarke, nineteen and no longer could be sent to the Games. They both looked alike, both with caramel colored hair and green eyes that they were told they had inherited from the mother they never got to know.

"You're going to be okay," her father told her. His voice was rusty and frantic. He didn't think she had a chance, she realized. Of course not. He also knew they wouldn't _let_ her walk from that. And even if they would... What could she possibly do to stay alive? She was an apprentice not a killer. "You're going to be fine, hon."

Clarke allowed him to bury his face in her hair. It didn't matter what he thought. It didn't matter what the truth was. She was going with her head held high. She couldn't run. She couldn't fight. All she could do was handle this like someone who wasn't afraid. Even if she was terrified.

Caleb grabbed her shoulders. "Listen to me," he said. "Getting a knife should be pretty easy and that's your best chance, Clarke."

"They might not have-"

"They will if you show how good you are!" he cut her. "They just want a good show! That's all they want."

"I don't think I can-"

"Clarke, it's just hunting," he said, his voice frantic.

"It's not just hunting, Caleb," she said, not quite believing he'd said that. "They're people! And they're armed. They think."

"So do you, Clarke," said her dad.

Clarke felt her hands shake. She couldn't believe what she was hearing. "It's twenty-four of us and only one comes out!"

Caleb nodded. "That's why you have to kill them before they kill you."

Clarke stared at her brother, the sweet boy, the perfect child. "I can't kill people," she said softly without a clue of how to make him understand. She couldn't terminate someone's life. It wasn't her place to do that. It wasn't her right.

"It's no different," whispered Caleb grimly. "If you can forget they're people, it will be no different at all."

Clarke was stunned by his words, by his ferocity, by his lack of humanity. She knew it wasn't entirely his fault; he was scared and he'd been raised in this cruel world.

"Oh, Caleb..." she shook her hand. "You should never forget people. That makes all the difference in the world."

Before he could argue, their dad took something small from his pocket and handed to Clarke. It was a circular gold pin of a small bird in flight. "This was your mother's," he said. "It'll protect you."

Clarke recognized the bird: it was a _mocking jay_. They were funny birds and something of a slap in the face to the Capitol. During the rebellion, the Capitol bred a series of genetically altered animals as weapons. One was a special bird called a _jabber jay_ that had the ability to memorize and repeat whole human conversations. Their purpose was to transmit private conversations. But the _jabber jays_ mated with female mockingbirds creating a whole new species that could replicate both bird whistles and human melodies.

Clarke's mom had been obsessed with _mocking jays_ ; that was the only thing Clarke knew about the woman. Whenever she'd sang to them, all the birds in the area would fall silent and listen. Her voice had been that beautiful, high and clear and so filled with life it made you want to laugh and cry at the same time. At least, that's what Clarke's dad had told her.

There was something comforting about that little bird. It was like having a piece of her mother with her. Clarke fastened the pin onto her shirt and thanked her dad for it.

"You're just as brave as she was, Clarke," he assured her. "It'll be fine."

 _It'll be fine._ That was the best her dad could do to hope.

Clarke ran through the possibilities of survival again until she couldn't stand to be in her own mind anymore. _Think about something else. Anything else._ The sound of ringing could be heard in the distance which meant the train wouldn't be waiting much longer. Clarke noticed the worried expression on her father's face; actually, panic would be the more accurate word.

But he also tried to keep himself together. He tried a faint smile and nudged Caleb, telling him it was time. Then he noticed Clarke staring, trying to memorize his features like she always did when she was about to lose someone, and pulled her into another hug.

"I love you." His voice was muffled by her hair.

"I love you too," Clarke said. They stayed like that for a moment before finally breaking away, and Clarke hugged her brother as well.

Silence fell. What else could she say to them? That she'd miss them? What use would that be? They just stood there for a while, Caleb's expression placid, Dad with tears shining in his eyes, everyone at a loss for words.

Soon after, the Peacekeeper returned and called them out. Despair showed up in Dad's eyes, but there was something buried in there too: a light, a flicker, a delicate candle in the middle of an endless night.

 _Hope...?_ It couldn't be.

"Would you look at that," he said heading to the door. "District 5's newest victor."

And with that, they left.

It took Clarke a moment to process these words. Then she finally decided he hadn't meant it at all. He was just trying to make her feel better. But for his sake, she made a promise to try her best to stay alive without having to harm another human being.

She'd been looking forward to one final walk to the hospital where she'd spent so much time during her medical apprenticeship, one last chance to experience something familiar, if only the smell of disinfectant and the hum of the ventilation system, before she lost the ability to feel forever. But they took her directly to the train.

Travel between the districts was forbidden except for officially sanctioned duties. This train was one of the high-speed Capitol models that averaged 25 miles per hour. The speed took her breath away. The journey only lasted a day, but it was a hard, heavy day for Clarke. Her mentor, Evelyn Johnson was an angry looking woman who hated Clarke the moment they were introduced.

"You have absolutely no chance," was her first words to Clarke. "You know that, right? It's better to just accept it. It hurts less. You're too small, weak and have this baby fat of someone who never starved before. You'll probably be the first one to die in that Arena, just like all the other tributes I had the displeasure of training."

Clarke thought that if that had come from anyone else, she'd be really pissed off. But from Evelyn, it didn't matter much. It didn't matter to her those harsh things. Because Clarke already knew that and hearing Evelyn say it didn't make it any more painful or any more true.

Clarke's time was up. She might as well acknowledge it.

Evelyn pondered in silent. "Well, maybe you're not entirely hopeless. There is something about you... some kind of... you look _kind_. I've seen you in the children's hospital. Maybe we can use that against them."

"Kindness?" Clarke sneered.

"Kindness is far more dangerous than you think. Kind people have a way of working their way inside of others and rooting there. And once we start caring about you people, there's nothing to be done." Evelyn glanced down, as if ashamed she had let that piece of information about herself slip, and Clarke wondered who she'd been really talking about. "And the more you care," Evelyn continued, "the harder it is to kill. You're also sort of pretty. Maybe once the stylists get hold of you, you'll be attractive enough to charm all of them. Think you can do that?"

"Tell me and I'll do it."

"In a few minutes," smiled Evelyn, "we'll be pulling into the station. You'll be put in the hands of your stylists. You're not going to like what they'll do to you. But no matter what it is, do not resist."

And Clarke, in fact, did not like the time she spent with her prep team, but she kept her word and no objection crossed her lips. Then, once she was settled in the Capitol waiting for the other tributes, she got to watch the reapings of those who hadn't been picked yet.

A fox-faced girl with sleek red hair from District 7. A boy with a crippled foot from 10. A small girl who barely looked fifteen from 22, that mounted the stage and Jeanine Matthews asked for volunteers, and no one said anything. There was no one willing to take her place.

It was usually like this. Family devotion only went so far on reaping day.

Or so Clarke thought. Because when the last day of reaping came, a radical thing took place before her very eyes.

District 24. A girl, Octavia Blake, was called, but a boy ran forward to volunteer. Clarke didn't miss the desperation in his voice as he shoved the girl behind him as if afraid no one would hear him. But, of course, they heard him. The commentators weren't sure what to say about the crowd's refusal to applaud. The silent salute that made Clarke's heart pound with emotion. She had never witnessed something so... reverent.

This was people showing they cared for their own. This was unity. This was beautiful.

The commentators tried to joke about it, saying that 24 had always been a bit awkward. And, as if on cue, the lone victor fell off the stage, and the commentators groan comically.

The anthem began and Clarke stared at the screen open-mouthed. That boy had stood there fearlessly, showing no sign of emotion in his determined face. It was as if he was thinking, _'tonight, if I cry they'll make note of my tears, and I'll be marked as a weakling. I will give no one that satisfaction.'_

Something ignited inside of her. _This boy is going to win!_ she thought to herself. _This boy deserves to win!_

And if it was within her power, Clarke would help him. By God, she would. She'd help him get out of that Arena and go back to his sister.

Or, more likely, she'd die trying... There were twenty-four of them. Odds were someone would kill her before she could really do anything helpful.

But then again, odds hadn't been very dependable of late.


	5. Bellamy III

Bellamy took in the scene of his mentor trying to rise out of the slippery vile stuff from his stomach. The reek of vomit threatened to bring Bellamy's dinner back up, but still he got up and helped the guy to his feet.

"I tripped?" asked Haymitch.

Bellamy half-led half-carried Haymitch back to his compartment. He hauled him into the bathtub and turned the shower on him. Haymitch hardly noticed.

The last thing Bellamy wanted to do was strip down Haymitch Abernathy and wash the vomit out of his chest hair, but that's exactly what he did. Obviously, the guy wasn't much, but Jeanine Matthews had been right: he was all Bellamy had.

The next day, as Bellamy entered the dining car, Jeanine brushed by him with a cup of black coffee. She was muttering obscenities under her breath. Haymitch, his face puffy and red from the previous night's indulgences, was chuckling.

"Sit down, boy!" he said, waving Bellamy over. The moment Bellamy slid into a chair, he was served an enormous platter of food and focused his attention on that. Haymitch wasn't very interested in the food and kept knocking back a glass of whiskey. He'd be incoherent by the time they reached the Capitol.

Bellamy felt his anger rising. Suddenly, he wanted to blame Haymitch for everything. He wanted to say _'no wonder the District 24 tributes never stand a chance. It isn't just that they're underfed and lacking training, they also lacked a sober trainer to get them sponsors.'_ But that wasn't quite fair either. It wasn't Haymitch's fault. None of this. The guy had been through all of this too and... well, Bellamy's dad used to say everyone had their way of dealing with pain.

"So when do we start?" Bellamy asked with his mouth full, trying to push down his anger.

"So eager," said Haymitch after a burp. "Most of you aren't in such a hurry."

"Yeah, I wanna know what the plan is. You're my mentor. You're supposed to tell me-"

Haymitch almost choked on his next drink. "Mentor?"

"Yes." Bellamy thought he was being very patient and he wasn't sure how long that was going to last. "My mentor. You're supposed to tell me how to get sponsors and give me advice."

Haymitch pretended to think about it. "All right. My advice is... embrace the probability of your imminent death. And know, in your heart, that there is nothing I can do to save you."

Bellamy was, suddenly, not hungry anymore. "So why are you here then?"

Haymitch raised a glass. "For the refreshments." He stared at Bellamy for a minute and then seemed to change his mind. "Okay. All right. What do you want to know?"

"How do I find shelter?"

"You know, that only comes in hand if you're, in fact, still alive."

"How do I find shelter?" repeated Bellamy.

"Will you pass the jam?"

"How do I find shelter?" insisted Bellamy, this time threateningly.

"Give me a break, boy. This mentoring thing is very tiring. Now, would you pass me the marmalade?"

Very slowly, Bellamy took the pot of jam and placed it as far away from Haymitch as it was physically possible. Haymitch was silent for a moment, then he laughed. "You really want to know how to stay alive? You get people to like you." Bellamy must've looked shocked because Haymitch made a face. "Oh? Not what you expected? You're in the middle of the games and you're starving, or freezing. Some water, a knife, or even some matches can mean the difference between life and death. And those things only come from sponsors. And to get sponsors you have to make people like you. And I will only like you if you pass me the goddamn jam."

Hesitantly, Bellamy gave him the pot. Haymitch, instead of thanking him, moved fast and unexpectedly, punching Bellamy in the jaw, knocking him from his chair.

"What the hell was that for?" Bellamy demanded rising from the floor. He reached out to grab some ice, but Haymitch stopped him.

"Let the bruise show. The audience will think you've mixed it up with another tribute before you've even made it to the Arena."

"That's against the rules," Bellamy pointed out.

"Only if they catch you. That bruise will say you fought. If you weren't caught, even better. Now, stand over here." Bellamy did as he was told and Haymitch circled him, prodding him like an animal, checking his muscles, examining his face. "You seem fit enough. And once the stylists get to you, I think the ladies will be interested."

Bellamy didn't question that. The Hunger Games weren't a beauty contest but the best-looking tributes always seemed to pull more sponsors.

"All right. I'll make a deal with you. You don't interfere with my drinking, and I'll stay sober enough to help you," offered Haymitch. It wasn't much of a deal, but still a giant step forward from ten minutes ago when he had no guide at all.

"Fine," said Bellamy. "So when I get to the arena, what's the best strategy at the Cornucopia for someone-"

"One thing at a time, boy," Haymitch stopped him. "In a few, we'll be pulling into the station. Go to the window. Smile and wave at your peers."

"But-"

"No buts. Smile and wave." Haymitch took the bottle of whiskey from the table and left the car.

The train began to slow down and bright lights flooded the compartment. Bellamy couldn't help it; he ran to the window to see the ruling city of Panem. The cameras did not lie about its grandeur.

People began to point at him eagerly as they recognized the tribute train rolling into the city. Bellamy wanted to step away, sickened by their excitement, knowing they couldn't wait to watch him die, but he held his ground and waved and smiled like Haymitch had told him to do. He only stopped when the train pulled into the station, blocking him from view.

For their first dinner at the Capitol, Haymitch actually showed up clean and groomed and about as sober as Bellamy had ever seen him, which made him believe he would really work hard to try and help him.

Everyone was there around the giant table; every tribute and every mentor. A few caught Bellamy's attention, but he tried to ignore them. He had no desire of meeting them. It'd only make things harder.

But as soon as he'd finished his first glass of wine, Bellamy started to feel foggy and could barely remember this people were supposed to be his enemies. He tried to focus on the talk. The girl beside him was staring at him intently as if she had just asked him a question and was waiting for the answer. She was pretty, with large green eyes and sometimes, depending on the light, her hair looked made of gold.

"What did you say?"

She faltered. "I asked you why you took your sister's place."

He cocked his head to the side and surveyed her quizzically. "Um. Well, I don't want her to die? Sounds like a good reason to me,"

"She might die anyways, you know," she made it sound like a fact.

Bellamy braced himself for the flash of irritation he was expecting but it never came. "Of course," he said, "But I'd rather her maybe dying of hunger at home than being brutally murdered by one of these clowns."

The tributes seating closer to him flashed him angry looks. Goldilocks wrinkled her nose in disgust at the thought, but it must have been a satisfactory explanation because she didn't say anything else. She turned to her platter and Bellamy thought it was his turn to say something inappropriate.

"You know," he whispered so no one else would hear him, "they picked you on purpose."

Her mouth fell open and she looked at him with a mixture of shock and indignation. For a moment he thought she might actually hit him, but then she just shook her head. "How do you know that?"

He shrugged. "You're the mayor's daughter," he said using the information Haymitch had given him. "There was no way your name was there more than three times tops. And, sure, my sister's name was there only once, but this isn't based in good or bad luck. Nothing here is coincidental. It all has a purpose."

And he might not have known what that purpose was, but he sure as hell was smart enough to spot a plot if necessary.

Goldilocks looked impressed. "It was brave, what you did for her," she said.

Bellamy opened his mouth, ready to crack a joke or other, but then thought better of it and folded his lips into a smirk. For a moment, they just stared at each other, the silence taking on a physical weight. But then he decided to say what he was thinking, what was obvious: "They won't let you win."

She studied him, and for a second, he worried he'd offended her. But then she nodded almost imperceptibly. "No," she answered, even though it hadn't been a question.

A ginger girl set a gorgeous looking cake on the table in front of them and Bellamy looked up.

"I know you!" he exclaimed. He couldn't place a name or time to the girl's face, but he was certain of it. And the expression of terror that crossed the girl's face only confirmed it. She shook her head in denial quickly and hurried away from the table.

Suddenly Bellamy noticed everyone was staring at him like hawks. "Don't be ridiculous," said Jeanine Matthews from where she was seated. "How could you possibly know an Avox? That very thought."

"She's probably a traitor of some sort," said Haymitch in a warning tone. "Not likely you'd know her."

"And even if you did, you're not to speak to one of them unless it's to give an order," finished Jeanine. "Of course, you don't really know her."

But Bellamy was sure because the memory soon returned to him. He'd been hunting once when, suddenly, all the birds stopped singing at once. And then he'd seen her and she'd had a boy with her. Their clothes were tattered. They'd had dark circles under their eyes from no sleep and were running as if their lives depended on it.

This strange pair, clearly not from 24, was fleeing through the woods. Bellamy had wanted to help them. They had been in trouble. But the hovercraft appeared out of nowhere. It didn't make a sound, but they'd had seen it. A net dropped down on the girl and carried her up, fast, so fast.

They'd shot some sort of spear through the boy. It was attached to a cable and they hauled him up as well. Bellamy heard the girl scream once. The boy's name probably. Then it was gone, the hovercraft. Vanished into thin air. And the birds began to sing again, as if nothing had happened.

Most importantly, there had been a moment before the hovercraft, where the girl had seen _him_. She'd locked eyes with him and called out for help.

That's why Bellamy was sure the girl remembered him too. You don't forget the face of the person who was your last hope.

So he spent the rest of the night awake wondering if she'd enjoy watching him die.

* * *

A review would go nicely here


	6. Clarke III

Clarke was called for another meeting with her prep team before she could officially meet her stylist. Apparently he had no interest in seeing her until she had no hair left in her body. She was scrubbed down with a gritty loam that removed not only dirt but at least three layers of skin and had her nails turned into uniform shapes.

"Excellent! You almost look like a human being," said Flavius, a guy with orange corkscrew locks, and the woman with him laughed.

"Thank you," said Clarke sheepishly. She wasn't sure how to talk to these people. Hell, she wasn't sure these people wanted her to talk. But she tried to show them that though she wasn't happy about the process, she knew they were only doing their job. "I guess we don't have much cause to look nice back home."

"Of course you don't, you poor darling," said Venia, Flavius' partner, a woman with aqua hair and gold tattoos, clasping her hands together in distress for Clarke. "But don't you worry, by the time Cinna is through with you, you're going to be absolutely gorgeous."

"We promise!" exclaimed Flavius. "You know, now that we've gotten rid of all the hair and filth, you're not horrible at all," he encouraged. "Let's call him, Venia." She nodded and they both darted out of the room.

When the door opened again, a young man who Clarke supposed to be Cinna entered. She was completely taken aback by how normal he looked. The only concession to self-alteration seemed to be a metallic gold eyeliner that had been applied with a light hand. He was very attractive and suddenly she remembered she was naked and blushed.

"Hello, Clarke. I'm Cinna, your stylist," he said in a quiet voice.

Clarke smiled but couldn't bring herself to speak. He walked around her naked body, not touching her, but taking in every inch of it with his eyes. Unable to stop herself, Clarke crossed her arms over her breasts. Noticing her discomfort, he handed her a robe.

"You're very beautiful," he said, and there was no malice in his voice. She looked up to find his eyes trained on hers. "How despicable we must seem to you."

Clarke immediately shook her head. "Strange. Different. Unaware," she granted. "But not despicable."

He stayed serious. "I'm sorry this happened to you. I'm here to help you in any way that I can."

"Most people just congratulate me," she noticed.

"I don't see the point in that." He stopped to consider something. "About your costume for the opening ceremonies... As you know, it's customary to reflect the flavor of the district."

Yes, she knew. Each tribute was supposed to wear something that suggested their district's principal industry. 22, agriculture. 4, fishing. 3, factories. This meant that coming from 5, the tributes usually wore an immaculate white robe, winged sandals and carried a caduceus. It was pretty lame, but it represented medicine to perfection.

"I don't know about you, but I think the whole Hermes thing is way overdone. No one will remember you in that. And it's my job to make you unforgettable," said Cinna. "So rather than focus on Greek mythology, we're going to focus on Catholic beliefs."

Clarke had absolutely no idea where he was going with that, so she kept her mouth shut.

"Do you know about angels?" Cinna asked with a smile.

"Little winged creatures?"

He cocked his head. "Angels, much like doctors, guarded people, protected them. Angels are pure and kind and beautiful. Everything I see in you. A person whose actions and thoughts are consistently virtuous. And you know what else angels are?" Clarke shook her head. "Messengers. From God."

Clarke stared at him. "I'm not sure I understand what you're saying."

"I'm saying that maybe, Clarke Griffin, you can use this chance to send a message of your own."

So Cinna dressed her in a simple gold unitard that covered her from ankle to neck. Shiny boots laced up to her knees. But it was the giant golden wings coming out from her back that defined the costume. There was a rain of glitter from them every time she dared to move.

Cinna tucked a hand under her chin and said, "Remember, head high. Smile. They're going to love you."

The crowd was initially alarmed when they saw her; everyone was used to the white toga, but they quickly began to cheer for her. Every head was turned her way, pulling the focus from the four chariots ahead of her. At first, Clarke was frozen, but then she caught sight of herself on a large television screen and was floored by how breathtaking she looked.

The pounding music, the cheers, the admiration worked their way into her blood, and Clarke couldn't suppress her excitement. For the first time, she felt a flicker of hope rising up inside of her. She lifted her chin a bit higher, putted on her most winning smile, and waved. Someone threw her a red rose. She caught it, gave it a delicate sniff, and blew a kiss back in the general direction of the giver. A hundred hands reached up to catch her kiss, as if it were a real and tangible thing.

The people of the Capitol were going nuts, showering her with flowers, shouting her name... Cinna gave her a great advantage. No one would forget her. Not her looks, not her name.

That was... until the last boy arrived leaving a trail of fire behind him. No one saw that coming either. He looked like a dark lord from hell as opposite to her heavenly wings. Soon, everyone was shouting for District 24.

The twenty-four chariots filled the loop of the City Circle. Their horses pulled their chariot right up to President Paige's mansion, and then came to a halt. The president, a small, thin woman with paper-white skin, gave the official welcome from a balcony above them.

After the ceremony was done, they went inside. The doors had only just shut behind them, when Clarke was engulfed by her prep team and their praises. But she only had eyes for the boy from 24, and she wasn't the only one. With a glance around, Clarke noticed a lot of the other tributes shooting him dirty looks, which confirmed he had outshone them all.

The Training Center had a tower designed exclusively for the tributes and their teams. That would be their home until the actual Games began. Each district had an entire floor for themselves and their team.

Evelyn was pleased. Clarke had been the first tribute she had that impressed the crowd, even if she'd been obfuscated by the boy from 24. Evelyn was very complimentary about how Clarke conducted herself. Also, Evelyn knew about everyone in the Capitol and had been talking Clarke up all day, trying to get her sponsors.

"I've been very mysterious," she told Clarke, "because, of course, I won't go out telling them our plans. Those are secret. But I've told them about your apprenticeship and how much time you dedicated to the needy. It's not as good as what they're saying about that Blake boy, but it's something."

Clarke came to a halt. "What are they saying about him?"

"Oh, you know... how he sacrificed himself for his sister. How he's successfully struggled to overcome the barbarism of his district. Which is hilarious coming from people helping to prepare him for slaughter, but what you gonna do? These people don't know irony."

Clarke suddenly smiled, guessing the boy from 24 wouldn't exactly need her help when the time came; he seemed to be doing a pretty good job by himself. She remembered their talk during last night's dinner. She had made a point to sit beside him so she could talk to him, had any sort of contact. She wanted so bad to know who he was and if she could really bring herself to give her life for his.

And he didn't disappoint.

Deciding all she wanted to do was be alone, Clarke found a flight of stairs and started to go up and up until finally she reached the roof. There was a small dome-shaped room with a door to the outside. As she stepped into the cool, windy evening air, she caught her breath at the view. She could see almost the entire city from there.

"Amazing, ain't it?" someone said. Clarke turned. The boy from 24 was leaning on the railing at the edge of the roof. He looked like he owned the place and Clarke asked herself if it was fate or coincidence that had brought both of them here. "I asked my mentor why they let us up here. Weren't they worried that some of the tributes might decide to jump right over the side?"

Clarke blinked. If she didn't feel so enthralled by this boy, she might've considered that herself. "What'd he say?"

"You can't," he answered. He held out his hand into seemingly empty space. There was a sharp zap and he jerked it back. "Some kind of electric field throws you back on the roof."

"Always worried about our safety," she said and he laughed. "Do you think they're watching us now?" she asked wondering if there were cameras there.

"Maybe," he admitted without much care. He kept looking down at the party that was going on, hearing the cheers, watching the colorful lights. "Listen to them," he said and Clarke noted the disgust in his voice.

Clarke came up beside him and leaned over the edge of the rail. The wide streets were full of dancing people. "Are they in costumes?"

"Who could tell?" he answered. "With all the crazy clothes they wear here. Anyway, what you doing here? Thinking up your strategies, princess?"

"No," Clarke admitted. "All I can do is wonder. Which is pointless, of course. I'm not really a contender in these Games anyway."

He turned to her. "That's no way to be thinking."

"Why not? It's true. My best hope is to not disgrace myself and... " she hesitated. _How to make him understand?_

"And what?" he looked at her curiously.

"I don't know how to say it exactly. Only... I don't want them to change me."

"How would they change you?"

Clarke shrugged. "I don't know. Turning me into something I'm not. I just don't want to be another piece in their game."

"Meaning you won't kill anyone?" he asked in disbelief.

She didn't like his tone. "I don't know. I'm not comfortable with the idea, but... I don't really know what I'm going to do when the time comes. What I mean is that... I keep thinking of a way of showing them that they don't own me. That I'm more than just a piece in their Games. If I'm gonna die, I want to still be me. Does that make any sense?"

A strange expression flashed across his face and Clarke wondered what he was thinking. Finally, he said, "Yeah. I just can't afford to think like that. I have my sister."

"I know. But there's still you and there's still me," she insisted. "Don't you see?"

"I do see it." He cast his eyes down. "Only... I don't think anyone cares."

Clarke blinked a few times, letting his words sink in. "Well, I do. After all, what else is there to care about at this point?"

The boy from 24 sighed painfully and stepped away from the railing. "Maybe care about staying alive," he said before leaving her alone in that sad, cold roof.


	7. Bellamy IV

When he woke up, the first thing he did was check the time. At home, he would have had to look at a rusty watch, but here they had electronic clocks that told the time right before your eyes.

6:12 a.m.

Although it was early, Bellamy decided to force himself out of bed since he wanted to start training as early as he could. He didn't really care about training with the other tributes, since he had no desire to form any alliances. The last thing he needed was to care for any of them.

He walked to the gigantic closet in his quarters and found that his training outfit had been laid out beneath the closet. It was black pants and a black shirt, with the number 24 on the back of the T-shirt.

Haymitch hadn't given him an exact time to meet for breakfast and no one had contacted Bellamy this morning, but he was hungry so he headed down to the dining room, hoping there would be food.

He was not disappointed.

His mind wandered to his mother and Octavia. They should be up by now. What had they thought last night about his fiery debut at the Games? Did it give them hope, or simply add to their terror when they saw the reality of twenty-four tributes circled together, knowing only one could live?

Haymitch came in, bid Bellamy good morning and filled his plate. "So, let's get down to business. Training. Give me some idea of what you can do."

Bellamy was brought back to reality. How he longed to hold Octavia... to hear her voice...

"I can hunt," he said with a shrug. "With a bow and arrow."

"Are you any good?"

Bellamy thought about it. He'd been putting food on the table for six years. That was no small task. He wasn't as good as his father had been, but his dad had had more practice. "Pretty good."

"I need you to be excellent," pushed Haymitch.

"Fine," said Bellamy. "I can hit every single thing right in the eye so the arrow doesn't pierce the body."

"Modesty. I like it," smiled Haymitch. "Can you wrestle?"

"What use is that?"

"If you don't want to walk into that Arena already dead, it'll come in hand. Can you or not?"

Bellamy shrugged another time. "I guess." He had enough body strength, enough muscles. Maybe he couldn't take on a Career, but he could definitely handle himself in a fight.

"Remember, boy, there's always hand-to-hand combat. All you need is to come up with a knife, and you'll at least stand a chance. But preferable, you'll be living up in some tree eating raw squirrels and picking off people with arrows. Agreed?"

Bellamy nodded.

"That's the plan if you can get your hands in a bow and arrows. And you will, if you show the Gamemakers what you can do. But only when you're alone with them. Until then, stay clear of archery. Learn new things. Make the most of your training days. Are you any good at trapping?"

"I know a few basic snares."

"That may be significant in terms of food," said Haymitch. "And don't underestimate strength in the arena. Very often, physical power tilts the advantage to a player. In the Training Center, they will have weights, but don't reveal how much you can lift in front of the other tributes. You go to group training. Spend the time trying to learn something you don't know. Throw a spear. Swing a mace. Learn to tie a decent knot. Save showing what you're best at until your private session. Are we clear?"

"Yeah."

The actual training rooms were below ground level of the building. With those elevators, the ride was less than a minute. The doors opened into an enormous gymnasium filled with various weapons and obstacle courses.

When Bellamy got to there, only Goldilocks was present. She was working at the camouflage station, painting on herself to fit in with her surroundings. She was so peaceful and calm she could make the whole thing look like nothing more than art class.

Taking his eyes off of her, Bellamy headed straight for the knife-throwing section, because he thought that could come in hand. He grabbed a knife and walked towards the target, about 20 feet away. He aimed, and threw, and missed the red dot in the middle of the target by an inch. He kept trying until he was doing it perfectly.

Goldilocks snuck up on him and almost gave him a heart attack: her camouflage thing was working remarkably well.

"You're really good at this," she said. "Could you teach me how to do it?"

Bellamy stared into those green eyes and hesitated. She smiled, inviting.

"You don't need to feel threatened. It's not like I'm gonna be any good at it." The lack of sorrow in her voice, like dying wasn't a bad thing, reverberated strangely in Bellamy's gut. She really didn't look like she was going to make it out of that Arena and the acceptance in her eyes only made him feel worse.

Honestly, he wanted to walk away without giving a damn. But she was looking at him expectantly, her green eyes full of interest and something else he couldn't quite identify, something that held him in place.

He gave her a weak smile. "Sure. Why not?" He knew why not, but kept the reasons at bay.

Surprisingly, she didn't completely suck at it although Bellamy doubted she would ever throw a knife at something living. They spent most of the morning doing that. Bellamy asked himself why someone who seemed to have given up hope wanted to learn how to throw knives. Once or twice, it occurred to him she wasn't giving her best shot, that she'd only asked for his help because she wanted to be near him and didn't really care about learning how to defend herself.

But that was crazy so Bellamy cast the thought aside.

Later, the other tributes started to arrive. They gathered in a tense circle around the head trainer, a tall, athletic man named Eric, who stepped up and began to explain the training schedule.

"We take the initiation process very seriously here, so I volunteered to oversee most of your training. Now some ground rules," he said. "You have to be in the training room by nine o'clock every day. Training takes place every day from nine to six, with a break for lunch. You are free to do whatever you like after six."

Bellamy glanced around measuring his opponents. He noticed that the only tribute who was smaller than Goldilocks was the fifteen-year-old from 22. The Career tributes, of course, were handling the deadliest-looking weapons like they'd been doing it all their life. They were all well-fed, and Bellamy could clearly see their muscles through their shirts.

They were looking at the other tributes with a lot of rage, clearly trying to intimidate them. But they didn't really scare Bellamy. He knew he was underfed, but he wouldn't let that get in the way of him trying to win this damn thing. For Octavia.

"At the end of initiation, your rankings will be determined. Your ranking serves two purposes: the first is to determine how much of a threat you are to each other. The second is for us to see which one of you will be the most improved during the actual Games."

Eric led them to one end of the room where the faded black punching bags were. On the left wall was a chalkboard with their names written on it in alphabetical order.

They lined up around Eric so they could all see him.

"As I said, next you will learn how to fight. The purpose of this is to prepare you to act; to prepare your body to respond to threats and challenges—which you will need, if you intend to get out of the Arena. Today, we will go over technique, and tomorrow you will start to fight each other. Nothing barbaric, listen. But I recommend that you pay attention. Those who don't learn fast will get hurt."

Eric named a few different punches, demonstrating each one as he did, first against the air and then against a punching bag. Bellamy realized he was better than he'd expected; he needed a few tries to figure out how to hold himself and how to move his body, but in the end he performed everything just fine. The kicks were more difficult, but Bellamy had strong enough legs.

Unable to help himself, Bellamy glanced around looking for Goldilocks. There she was, focused on her punching bag, but not with the ferocity he could see in the others. She kept that calm look of when she was painting, like all of this was just a class she was taking, a hobby maybe, the punching bag barely moving with her punches.

Unaware, Bellamy smiled. Later he understood... he was jealous of her. Jealous of how free she was. She could feel, do, act however she pleased. She could even die anyway she wanted. He studied her and saw no obligations, just release. That's what she was - pure freedom.

And at the end of the day, it did make all the difference.

At lunch, they were forced to eat in a dining room off the gymnasium, all twenty-four of them. The Career Tributes tended to gather rowdily around one table, as if to prove their superiority, that they had no fear of one another and considered the rest of them beneath notice.

Most of the other tributes sat alone, like lost sheep. Goldilocks sat beside the fifteen-year-old girl and Bellamy decided to join them. The girl introduced herself as Rue, but other than their names, they weren't sure of what to say. It wasn't easy finding a topic. Talking of home was painful. Talking of the present was unbearable.

"I don't know what scares me more," said Goldilocks suddenly, "the thought that I'm going to be spending my last days here in the Capital or its monstrous size."

Little Rue seemed interested. "I thought District 5 was big."

Goldilocks shook her head. "Oh, no. I know everyone there by name. But 22 is supposed to be enormous."

"It is," and Rue looked down at her plate with sad little eyes.

Goldilocks took her hand. The gesture was small, simple, common even, but for some reason it shocked Bellamy to his core. And he wasn't the only one. The tributes closer to them stared open-mouthed. Bellamy had no idea what it meant but he felt like something was changing before his eyes.

"Don't be afraid," Goldilocks whispered to Rue. "Fear isn't real. It's just the product of thoughts you create. Danger is very real, yes. But fear is a choice."

In some other level of existence, Bellamy was aware that the room had gone quiet and every tribute watched the girl from 5 as if she was God proclaiming the commandments. They were hanging on her every word, Bellamy included.

In that moment, he almost saw the angel wings she had worn last night. In the blaze of the light of very few words she looked more than a mortal, not a girl but a young heroin out of some mythological saga.

It was a fantastic moment.

Afterwards, more than one of those present were haunted by that.

* * *

Writers do love notes


	8. Clarke IV

The Training Center smelled like effort, sweat, dust and shoes. Every time her fist hit the punching bag it stung her knuckles, which were split open from three days of doing that. Clarke had already gone from station to station trying to learn a little bit of everything, but realized she wasn't really good at any of it.

Fighting... she had no desire to learn that. She wouldn't be doing any fighting anyway; she'd be dead before she had the chance. But surviving on her own was something she considered necessary. Learning how to make some knots, learning how to find food and how to make shelter. Those things would help her stay alive long enough to maybe make a difference.

The boy from 24 wasn't the only thing in her mind anymore. There was also the girl from 22. She was small, and honest and kind, the kind of girl who should had never been sent to die in the Arena. The moment Clarke left her the other day, she was taken by this strong need of doing something for Rue... Anything.

As she stood in front of her punching bag, Clarke stopped to take deep breaths of the cool air coming from the air ducts. Her father had taught her to steal moments like these, moments of freedom. Clarke had watched him take them, slipping out the door after dark when he thought his children were asleep, creeping back home when sunlight was just appearing behind the buildings. He took these moments even when he was with Clarke and Caleb, standing over the sink with his eyes closed, so distant from the present that he didn't even hear them fighting behind him.

But Clarke had learned something else from watching him too: these moments always had to end.

She opened her eyes to find the boy from 24 staring at her. Immediately, her heart raced though Clarke wasn't quite sure why. It was just the way he was looking at her, like he could see everything about her, like he could hear whatever she was thinking.

Clarke turned away and started punching the bag with control. If she let herself, Clarke would clench her hands so hard she'd start to lose feeling in her fingertips.

The boy from 24 came over. It was early morning and not all tributes were there yet, so they were allowed to wander around. When he stopped in front of Clarke, her insides twisted like someone was stirring them with a fork. He studied her, his eyes following her body from her head to her feet, not lingering anywhere: a practical, scientific gaze.

"You don't have much muscle," he pointed out, "which means you're better off using your knees and elbows. You can put more power behind them."

Suddenly he pressed a hand to her stomach. Clarke's heart pounded so hard her chest hurt, and she glanced at him, wide-eyed.

"Never forget to keep tension here," he said in a quiet voice. He lifted his hand and walked away, but Clarke could feel the pressure of his palm even after he was gone. It was strange, but she had to stop and breathe for a few seconds before she could keep practicing again.

Later, when time came, Eric called them for the first fight: the boy from 16, Will, and the boy from 6, Jason. According to Eric, they weren't supposed to hit each other in the face or in the 'soft' parts of the body.

Jason started off already throwing a punch, but Will ducked, the back of his neck shining with sweat. He dodged another punch, slipping around Jason and kicking him hard in the back. Jason lurched forward and turned.

He charged at Will, grabbing his arm so he couldn't slip away, and punched him hard in the stomach. Will's eyes rolled back into his head, and all the tension fell from his body. He slipped from Jason's grasp and crumpled to the floor.

Cold rushed down Clarke's back and filled her chest.

Jason's eyes widened but he didn't approach Will. The room fell silent as they waited for Will to respond. For a few seconds, he didn't. Then he blinked, clearly dazed.

"Get him up," Eric said. The curl of his lip was cruel. He turned to the chalkboard and circled Jason's name. Victory. "Next up: 7 and 19!" shouted Eric.

Turned out 7 was Foxface, and 19 was this huge ugly looking girl called Molly.  
Foxface cracked her knuckles but Clarke doubted she stood a chance. Foxface tuck her red hair behind her ears. She looked nervous, and no wonder, who wouldn't be nervous after watching Will collapse like a rag doll? She kicked Molly in the side. Molly gasped and gritted her teeth like she was about to growl through them.

Molly smirked at Foxface, and without warning, dived, hands outstretched, at Foxface's midsection. She hit her hard, knocking her down, and pinned her to the ground. Foxface thrashed, but Molly was heavy and didn't budge.

She punched, and Foxface moved her head out of the way, but Molly just punched again, and again, until her fist hit Foxface's jaw, her nose, her mouth. Blood ran down the side of Foxface's face and splattered on the ground next to her cheek.

Without thinking, Clarke stepped forward and ordered Molly to stop. Surprisingly, the girl obeyed. Foxface came to her knees, holding her face with one hand. The blood streaming from her nose was thick and dark and covered her fingers in seconds. She crawled away from Molly. Clarke could tell by the heaving of her shoulders that she was sobbing, but could barely hear her over the throbbing in her own ears.

Everyone was staring at her as Clarke knelt beside Foxface and helped her stanch the blood from her nose. "You have to apply pressure," she told her. Foxface's hands were shaking but she did what Clarke told her to. She might've thanked Clarke, but Clarke wasn't listening. She suddenly realized this would be harder than she had expected. And now she was doubting she'd be able to survive training.

Eric proclaimed Molly as the winner and then turned his evil glare at Clarke. "Hey, doc. How about you go next? You and 2."

The boy from 2, Cato, was almost two heads taller than Clarke. But she had seen it coming. With her luck, a good beating was all that was missing.

The boy from 24 was staring at her. He looked ready to say something, but Clarke doubted anything would make a difference to what was about to happen. She could barely remember how to stand. She had no real idea of how to throw a punch nor did she want to.

She walked to the center of the arena and her guts writhe as Cato came toward her, taller than she remembered, his muscles standing at attention. He smiled at her. Clarke wondered if throwing up on him would do her any good.

"You okay there?" he said. "You look like you're about to cry. I might go easy on you if you cry."

Over Cato's shoulder, Clarke could still see the boy from 24 standing with his arms folded. His mouth was puckered, like he'd just swallowed something sour.

One second Cato and Clarke were standing there, staring at each other, and the next his hands were grabbing her face so he could look her right in the eye. "Come on! Just one little tear. Maybe some begging."

The thought of begging him for mercy made her taste bile. Clarke realized she wasn't the only one who hadn't faith in her abilities. No one believed in her. No one thought she stood a chance. And somehow that bothered her.

"Fear is a choice," she reminded her own self. On an impulse, she kicked him in the side and Cato stumbled backward. That brought a smile to little Rue's face. But Cato came back hungry for blood. He grabbed her by the hair and Clarke tried to shove him off, her hands slapping at his arms, and he punched her in the ribs.

He shoved her and Clarke fell down, scraping her hands on the ground, blinking, sluggish and slow. He darted in front of her and kicked her hard in the stomach. His foot forced the air from her lungs and it hurt; it hurt so badly she couldn't breathe.

However, she coughed and dragged herself to her feet. She was very conscious she should be lying down since the room was spinning really fast. She could barely make out the shapes around her. Then something hit her from the side and she fell over again. Her back smacked into the floor.

Something slammed into her side and she could no longer see anything at all, not even whatever was right in front of her face, the light was out.

When Clarke woke up, she felt nothing at all. Apparently, someone had fixed her right up. She opened her eyes. Sitting to her right was the boy from 24, and Rue sat on the bed to her left.

"What are you doing here?" she mumbled.

"It's after six," said Rue. "They said we could come."

"How are you feeling?" asked... Clarke wanted to start calling him by the name, but... what was his name again?

Clarke sat down. "I'm fine."

He nodded. "That redhead was waiting for you to wake up, but her mentor came calling for her. She wanted to thank you."

Clarke let out a weak laugh. "Tributes thanking each other... who would've thought...?"

"She was thanking you," said little Rue. "You're doing this."

"I'm not doing anything," said Clarke, turning serious. Or anything different from what she used to do at home. Whenever there was someone bleeding, Clarke would help them. She was trained for it. It wasn't a big deal.

"Actually, you're freaking the hell outta everybody," said B... the boy from 24.

"Bellamy!" exclaimed Rue.

 _Bellamy!_ that was it! Clarke stared at him. "I'm freaking everybody out? That guy beat the crap out of me! And you mean to say they're scared of me?" Clarke shook her head and suddenly felt dizzy again. "I can't do this. I know it. You know it. They know it."

"But you'll get help," said Rue softly. "People will help you in the Arena."

"What?"

"They'll be tripping over each other to sponsor you," said Bellamy. He and Rue exchanged a knowing look and Clarke got the feeling they'd been talking about her. It wasn't a comforting thought.

"No more than you two," she argued.

Rue actually laughed and rolled her eyes. "She has no idea!" she told Bellamy. "She has no idea of the effect she can have."

What on earth did that mean? People helping her? No one had ever helped before. She was the one always doing the helping part. And that's how she liked it, she didn't need any help, not usually. What effect did she have? That she was weak and needy? Were they suggesting that people pitied her? Clarke tried to think if this was true. Then she glowered at the two of them sure they meant to insult her.

Clarke clenched her teeth as the tears filled her eyes. She was fed up. She was fed up with tears and weakness. She turned to her side and asked them to leave. They tried to argue and change the subject, but Clarke insisted to be left alone.

Maybe she drifted off to sleep, and maybe she didn't.

Later that night, though, Clarke slipped out of the room and went back to the dormitory. The only thing worse than letting someone put her in the hospital was letting them put her there overnight.

No. Things were changing. It was time to be strong. Like the angels Cinna had told her about.

It was time to send a message.

* * *

I, for one, would much prefer to receive messages, if you know what I'm talking about...


	9. Bellamy V

Eric was determined to whip them into shape, full of endless directions about what they should do and not do in training. Clarke, as Bellamy saw her now, was much more patient than him, and Bellamy was becoming fed up and surly.

During the next three days, unless they were asked to fight, Bellamy, Clarke and Rue would go from station to station, trying to learn everything they possibly could.

He had to fight the guy from 20 and won but not before his nose had been brutally smashed. The time he spent in the infirmary saved him from watching Rue getting beaten by a bigger girl. At least Clarke was spared in the next days, something Bellamy found himself incredibly grateful for.

It was only in that third day that Bellamy realized they were spending too much time together. It was easy to forget the situation they were in when she would smile at him, when those green eyes shone, when he could catch that look and couldn't know what she was thinking. He began to feel the danger of paying Clarke Griffin too much attention.

In that third day, she'd said something funny that hit him the wrong way. He caught himself mid-laugh realizing how much he liked her, how much he already cared. It was messing with his mind too much, being friends with her and then remembering he shouldn't be doing that. At least when they got into the Arena, he'd know where they stood.

Saying that to her hurt more than having his nose smashed by that Malcolm guy's fist. _God, the look in her face, like he'd just crushed her dreams!_ He almost tried to take everything back, but Clarke stepped away from him and said tiredly, "All right."

After that, they didn't talk anymore. Bellamy wisely resolved to be particularly careful that no sign of admiration or affinity should now escape him, nothing that could elevate her in his eyes. The Games would begin in two days and trusting another person would be nothing but weakness.

The Gamemakers started calling them out of lunch for their private sessions. District by district. The tributes lingered in the dining room, unsure of what to do. No one came back once they'd left.

When it was Clarke's turn, she stopped at the door to glance at Bellamy and said, "You. Do good." And then she was gone.

Bellamy didn't know why she'd said anything at all. Although if he was going to lose, he'd rather Clarke won than the others... No. He couldn't think like that. It wasn't fair to Octavia. He had to win this thing. No matter what.

As the room emptied, the pressure intensified, and eventually, Bellamy was all alone.

After about fifteen minutes, they called his name. He smoothed his hair, set his shoulders back, and walked into the gymnasium. Instantly, he knew he was in trouble. They'd been here too long, the Gamemakers. Sat through twenty-three other demonstrations. Had too much wine, most of them. Wanted more than anything to go home.

There was nothing Bellamy could do but continue with the plan. He walked to the archery station. He chose a bow, strung it, and slung the matching quiver of arrows over his shoulder. There was a shooting range, but it was much too limited. Standard bull's-eyes and human silhouettes. Bellamy walked to the center of the gymnasium and picked his first target.

The dummy used for knife practice. Even as he pulled back on the bow he knew something was wrong. The string was tighter than the one he used at home. The arrow was more rigid. Bellamy missed the dummy by a couple of inches and lost what little attention he had been commanding.

For a moment, he was humiliated. Then he breathed out and headed back to the bull's-eye. He shot again and again until he got the feel of these new weapons.

Back in the center of the gymnasium, he took his initial position and skewered the dummy right through the heart. Then he severed the rope that held the sandbag for boxing, and the bag split open as it slammed to the ground. Without pausing, he shoulder-rolled forward, came up on one knee, and sent an arrow into one of the hanging lights high above the gymnasium floor. A shower of sparks burst from the fixture.

It was excellent shooting.

Bellamy turned to the Gamemakers. A few were nodding approval, but the majority of them were fixated on a roast pig that had just arrived at their banquet table.

And Bellamy was furious. With his life on the line, they didn't even have the decency to pay attention to him. He was being upstaged by a dead pig. His heart started to pound, he could feel his face burning. Without thinking, Bellamy pulled an arrow from the quiver and sent it straight at the Gamemakers' table. He heard shouts of alarm as people stumbled back. The arrow skewered the apple in the pig's mouth and pinned it to the wall behind it. Everyone stared at him in disbelief.

Well, he had their attention now.

Bellamy raised his hand and showed them his middle finger. Then he walked straight toward the exit without being dismissed.

* * *

The scores would be televised tonight.

Everyone was waiting by the hall downstairs, all the tributes, their mentors and even their stylists. Bellamy avoided looking at anyone as he went to stand beside Haymitch.

"Okay, just how bad were you today?" Haymitch whispered.

"I shot an arrow at the Gamemakers."

Haymitch glared at him. "You what?"

"I shot an arrow at them. Not exactly at them. In their direction. I was shooting and they were ignoring me and I just... I just lost my head, so I shot an apple out of their stupid roast pig's mouth," Bellamy said defiantly.

"And what did they say?"

"Nothing. Or I don't know. I walked out after that."

"Without being dismissed?"

"I dismissed myself," said Bellamy. He remembered how he'd promised Octavia that he really would try to win and he felt like a ton of coal had dropped on him. What if this act of rebellion had cost him his only chance to get sponsors? Bellamy didn't want to, but as time dragged away he started to regret his short temper.

"Well, that's that," said Haymitch, not really helping.

"Do you think they'll arrest me?" Bellamy asked very low so no one but Haymitch would hear him.

"Doubt it. Be a pain to replace you at this stage."

"What about my family?" The horrible thought came to him. "Will they punish them?"

"Nah. Wouldn't make much sense. See they'd have to reveal what happened in the Training Center for it to have any worthwhile effect on the population. People would need to know what you did. But they can't since it's secret, so it'd be a waste of effort. More likely they'll make your life hell in the Arena."

"Well, they've already promised to do that to us any way."

"Very true," chuckled Haymitch. "What were their faces like?"

Bellamy felt the edges of his mouth tilting up. "Shocked. Terrified. Uh, ridiculous, some of them. One man tripped backward into a bowl of punch. And I might have flipped them off before I left."

Haymitch laughed out loud and some people glanced at him.

Then everyone was asked to be quiet and the lights were dimmed. First they showed a photo of the tribute, then flashed their score below it. The Career Tributes naturally got in the eight-to-ten range. Most of the other players got an averaged five. Surprisingly, little Rue came up with a seven, and Clarke was given the lowest score: a shameful two. Bellamy tried not to feel bad for her; it wasn't his place. But it was hard hearing the Careers laugh at her.

Bellamy's face came up and he braced himself. Then they flashed the number eleven on the screen.

 _Eleven!_

"There must be a mistake. How... how could that happen?" he asked Haymitch.

"Guess they liked your temper," he shrugged. "They've got a show to put on. They need some players with some heat."

* * *

Next morning, Haymitch knocked early at Bellamy's door, reminding him there was another big day ahead. Tomorrow night would be the televised interviews. Bellamy guessed the whole team would have their hands full readying them for that.

Haymitch seemed in a pretty good mood but, after lunch, he took Bellamy into the sitting room, directed him to the couch, and then just frowned at him for a while.

"What?" Bellamy finally asked.

"I'm trying to figure out what to do with you," he said. "How we're going to present you. Are you going to be charming? Aloof? Fierce? So far, you've done well. You volunteered to save your sister. You've got the top training score. People are intrigued, but no one knows who you are. The impression you make tomorrow will decide exactly what I can get you in terms of sponsors."

Having watched the tribute interviews all his life, Bellamy knew there was truth to what he was saying. If he could appeal to the crowd, either by being humorous or brutal or eccentric, he'd gain favor.

"What's the best approach?"

"Likable, I'd say. But that requires a natural sort of self-deprecating humor. Whereas when you open your mouth, you come across more as sullen and hostile."

"I do not!"

"Please. When was the last time you smiled, boy?"

Bellamy did his best not to think of Clarke. "Because you've given me so many reasons to smile," he countered.

"But you don't have to please me. I'm not going to sponsor you. So pretend I'm the audience," said Haymitch. "Delight me."

"Fine!" Bellamy snarled. Haymitch took the role of the interviewer and Bellamy tried to answer his questions in a winning fashion. But he couldn't. All Bellamy could think was how unjust the whole thing was, the Hunger Games. Why was he hopping around like some trained dog trying to please people he hated? The longer the interview went on, the more his fury seemed to rise to the surface, until Bellamy was literally spitting out answers at Haymitch.

"All right, enough," he said. "We've got to find another angle. Not only are you hostile, I don't know anything about you. I've asked you fifty questions and still have no sense of your life, your family, what you care about. They want to know about _you_."

"But I don't want them to! They're already taking my future. They can't have the things that mattered to me in the past."

"Then lie! Make something up!"

"I'm not good at lying."

"Well, you better learn fast. You've got about as much charm as a dead slug." Bellamy gave him his most deadly eyes. Haymitch must'd gotten the message because his voice softened. "Here's an idea. Try acting humble."

"Humble," Bellamy echoed.

"That you can't believe a boy from District 24 has done this well. The whole thing's been more than you ever could have hoped of. Talk about the comforts of the Capitol. How nice the people are. How the city amazes you. If you won't talk about yourself, at least compliment the audience. Just keep turning it back around, all right. Gush."

The next hours were agonizing. At once, it was clear Bellamy could not gush. They tried him playing cocky, but Bellamy just didn't have the arrogance and his ferocity wasn't elegant or inspiring. He wasn't witty. Or funny. Or sexy. Or mysterious.

By the end of the session, he was nothing at all. Haymitch started drinking somewhere around witty, and a nasty edge had crept into his voice.

"I give up, boy. Just answer the questions and try not to let the audience see how openly you despise them."

Bellamy guessed that was as good plan as any.


	10. Clarke V

_Betrayal_.

That was the first thing Clarke felt, which was ludicrous. For there to be betrayal, there would've had to have been trust first. Between Bellamy and her. And trust had not been a part of the agreement. They were tributes. But the boy who gave her hope, strength and a will to die for something that mattered... Was there some part of her that could help trusting him?

Obviously, whatever thin connection she had _foolishly_ formed had been severed. The Games were in two days. Whatever triggered Bellamy's decision, Clarke should be nothing but grateful for it. Maybe he thought that the sooner they openly acknowledge that they were enemies, the better.

Unfortunately, that wasn't how she felt at all.

"Let's prepare you for this, shall we?" Evelyn almost shouted bringing Clarke back to reality.

Clarke couldn't imagine what Evelyn had to teach her that would take four hours, but she got Clarke working down to the last minute. They went to her rooms and Evelyn put Clarke in a full-length gown and high-heeled shoes and instructed Clarke on walking. The shoes were the worst part. Clarke had never worn high heels and couldn't get used to essentially wobbling around on the balls of her feet.

But Evelyn ran around in them full-time, and Clarke was determined that if Evelyn could do it, so could she.

When Clarke finally conquered the art of walking, there was still sitting, posture (apparently Clarke had a tendency to duck her head), eye contact, hand gestures, and smiling. Smiling was mostly about smiling _more_. Evelyn made Clarke say a hundred banal phrases starting with a smile, while smiling, or ending with a smile. By lunch, the muscles in Clarke's cheeks were twitching from overuse.

"Well, that's the best I can do," Evelyn said with a sigh. "And I believe you're doing well. Just remember, Clarke, you want the audience to like you."

"And you don't think they will?"

"I don't think you'll give them a choice. There's just something about you... They can't help but like you. But you need to make an effort too. Think of them as friends."

"Even though they're betting on how long I'll live?"

"Even then, yes."

Evelyn was being very kind to Clarke as of late. She hadn't even given her a hard time about her low score yesterday, something Clarke was incredibly thankful for. When Clarke asked her why she was being so understanding by the end of the day, Evelyn just said: "Scores only matter if they're very good, no one pays much attention to the bad or mediocre ones. For all they know, you could be hiding your talents to get a low score on purpose. People use that strategy."

The next day belonged to Cinna. He was, literally, Clarke's angel. He'd make her look so wonderful, she was sure no one would care if she was smiling or not.

The team worked on her until late afternoon, turning her skin to glowing satin, stenciling patterns on her arms, painting transparent stars designs on her twenty perfect nails. Then Venia went to work on Clarke's hair, weaving strands of gold into a pattern that began at Clarke's left ear, wrapped around her head, and then fell in one braid down her right shoulder. They erased her face with a layer of pale makeup and drew her features back out. Huge green eyes, full red lips, lashes that threw off bits of light when she blinked. Finally, they covered Clarke's entire body in a powder that made her shimmer in gold dust like...

"...like an angel," said Venia, finishing Clarke's thoughts.

Then Cinna entered with what she assumed was her dress, but she couldn't really see it because it was covered. "Close your eyes," he ordered.

Clarke could feel the silken inside as they slipped it down over her naked body, then the weight: it weighed nothing! Clarke still felt naked. She clutched Venia's hand as she blindly stepped into her shoes, glad to find they were at least two inches lower than the pair Evelyn had her practice in. There was some adjusting and fidgeting. Then silence.

"Open your eyes," said Cinna.

The creature standing before her in the full-length mirror had come from another world. Probably a beautiful place where skin shimmered and eyes flashed and apparently they made their clothes out of butterfly wings. Because the dress, oh, the dress was as tender and as fragile as a butterfly wing. It didn't look like Clarke was wearing something; it looked like the dress was part of her, like a second skin.

For a while, they all just stared at her. "Oh, Cinna," Clarke finally whispered, afraid to move, afraid to ruin it. "Thank you."

Cinna dismissed the team and had Clarke move around in the dress and shoes, which were infinitely more manageable than Evelyn's.

"So, all ready for the interview then?" asked Cinna.

"I'm not sure I can do this," Clarke admitted. "I can't pretend to be happy and interested in the Capitol's fashion. I'm not."

"What if you don't pretend?" he suggested. "Why don't you just be yourself?"

"Myself? That's no good, either. I'm shy and... Well, I'm scared and I'm... weak."

Cinna studied her for a moment. "Maybe you are all these things. But you're so much more than that, Clarke. You're pretty and you're sweet and you're kind. The prep team adores you. And as for the citizens of the Capitol, well, they can't stop talking about you. No one can help but admire your pure spirit."

"Pure spirit?" Clarke made a face. "What does that even mean?"

"It means you're brave. It means you haven't forgotten who you are. It means you care." Cinna took her icy hands in his warm ones. "Suppose, when you answer the questions, you think you're addressing me. I'll be sitting on the main platform with the other stylists. You'll be able to look right at me. When you're asked a question, find me, and answer it as honestly as possible," said Cinna.

"Even if what I think is horrible?"

"Especially if what you think is horrible," he said.

As Cinna turned the doorknob, Clarke stopped his hand. "Cinna." She was completely overcome with stage fright.

"Remember, they already love you," he said gently. "Just be yourself."

* * *

They met up with the rest of the Districts crowd at the elevator. Rue looked adorable in a green dress that went very well with her skin tone. Bellamy was striking in a black suit with flame accents. He looked so intimidating Clarke had to turn away.

All twenty-four of them sat in a big arc throughout the interviews. There wasn't much chance for interaction now as they walked single-file to their seats and took their places.

Just stepping on the stage made Clarke's breathing rapid and shallow. She could feel her pulse pounding in her temples. It was a relief to get to her chair, because between the heels and her legs shaking, she was afraid she'd trip and fall on her face.

Although evening was falling, the City Circle was brighter than a summer's day. An elevated seating unit had been set up for prestigious guests, with the stylists commanding the front row. Television crews had claimed most of the balconies and the City Circle was completely packed with people. It was crazy Clarke was perfectly aware that at homes around the country, every television set would be turned on.

Caesar Flickerman, the man who'd hosted the interviews for more than forty years, bounced onto the stage. It was a little scary because his appearance had been virtually unchanged during all that time. Same face under a coating of pure white makeup. Same hairstyle that he dyed a different color for each Hunger Games. Same ceremonial suit, midnight blue dotted with a thousand tiny electric bulbs that twinkled like stars.

They did surgeries in the Capitol, to make people appear younger and thinner. As far as Clarke was concerned, looking old was something of an achievement since so many people died early. But here everything was different. Wrinkles weren't desirable. A round belly wasn't a sign of success.

This year, Caesar's hair was powder blue and his eyelids and lips were coated in the same hue. He told a few jokes to warm up the audience but then got down to business.

The girl tribute from District 1, looking provocative in a see-through gold gown, stepped up the center of the stage to join Caesar for her interview. Her body was tall and lush; she was sexy all the way. The large boy from 2, however, was a cruel killing machine.

Soon it was Clarke's turn.

"Ladies and gentlemen, she conquered your hearts during the opening ceremony," said Caesar, "give it up for Clarke Griffin!"

Clarke felt herself, as if in a dream, standing and making her way center stage. She shook Caesar's outstretched hand.

"Clarke, Clarke, Clarke..." he started. "I have to say what everyone's thinking: _wow!_ I think we've all been mesmerized by your beauty. People talk about it everywhere."

 _What? What did he say?_ It was as if the words made no sense. Her mouth had gone as dry as sawdust. Clarke desperately found Cinna in the crowd and locked eyes with him.

Finding her courage, she asked Caesar to repeat the question. The crowd laughed at that as if she was a cute puppy or something. Caesar did as she asked. Clarke showed her most winning smile thinking of Cinna's advice. "I think I was touched by an angel," she said and laughed and was astonished to see everyone following her lead.

"Oh, I believe that," Caesar said, serious. "And perhaps that was exactly what you needed. If I understand it correctly, you got the lowest score?"

Clarke sat like a lady, the way Evelyn had showed her. "There are more important things. That are other ways to prove your value," she said with little conviction but Caesar seemed to like it because he said: "We'll hold you to that, uh?"

"Now," he moved on, "when you came out in the opening ceremonies, my heart actually stopped. I'm serious. What did you think of that costume?"

Clarke didn't have to look at Cinna to be honest this time. "Oh, that was the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen. I couldn't believe I was the one wearing it. I can't believe I'm wearing this, either." She lifted up her skirt to spread it out and make it shine. "I mean, look at it!"

As the audience let out _oohs_ and _ahs_ , Cinna made the tiniest circular motion with his finger. Clarke, her heart pounding, spun in a circle once and the reaction was immediate.

"Oh, do that again!" said Caesar, and so she lifted up her arms and spun around and around letting the skirt fly out, letting the dress engulf her in purpurine. The audience broke into cheers. Clarke had to clutch Caesar's arm when she stopped.

"Don't stop!" he cried out.

"I'm dizzy!" she admitted, giggling, which she couldn't believe she'd done in this lifetime. But the nerves and the spinning were getting to her.

Caesar wrapped a protective arm around her. "Don't worry, I've got you. It's alright," he reassured the crowd, "our Clarke's safe with me."

That didn't have the effect he'd expected. The crowd grew silent and suddenly it was like Caesar's words were echoing through the night. _Our Clarke is safe with me..._ Aside from welcoming her as one of them, from showing that they cared about her, his words also stated she wouldn't make it out of that Arena. _Our Clarke is safe with me_ , just not for very much longer.

instead of warmth, Clarke felt an icy rigidity take over her body. Her muscles tensed and, when she spoke, her voice seemed to have dropped an octave. "Yes, I am."

Caesar didn't say anything else, but gave her hand a gentle squeeze. Clarke went back to her place.

The interviews continued. The girl from 7, who Clarke called Foxface in her mind, was concealed and evasive. 8, 9, 10. Will, from 16, was shy and barely said anything. Rue fluttered her way to Caesar. A hush fell over the crowd at the sight of this magical wisp of a tribute. Caesar was very sweet with her, complimenting her seven in training. When he asked her what her greatest strength in the arena would be, she didn't hesitate.

"I'm very hard to catch," she said in a tremulous voice. "And if they can't catch me, they can't kill me. So don't count me out."

"I wouldn't in a million years," said Caesar encouragingly.

Then it was Bellamy's turn. He walked over to Caesar with all the confidence Clarke didn't possess. He won over the audience from the start, and Clarke could hear them cheering, laughing, shouting. Bellamy made jokes and Caesar laughed until he had tears in his eyes.

"Oh, you're killing us," Caesar said as if in actual pain, before turning serious. "So, how about that training score. _E-le-ven_. That was the highest score this year. Give us a hint what happened in there."

Bellamy glanced at the Gamemakers on the balcony. "Um. It was definitely... unprecedented."

The cameras were right on the Gamemakers, who were chuckling and nodding. Clarke was suddenly dying of curiosity.

"Details. Details," asked Caesar.

Bellamy addressed the balcony. "I'm not supposed to talk about it, right?"

One of the Gamemakers shouted out: "No!"

"But it went something like this," and Bellamy flipped the Gamemakers off and the audience lost it. Clarke covered her mouth, not quite believing it. Bellamy turned back to Caesar and said: "I'm sorry. My good manners stayed in 24, along with the poverty and the hunger your guys like to ignore."

"Ha ha." Caesar looked like he didn't know what to do anymore. The crowd was laughing out loud and clapping like seals. "Let's go back then, to the moment they called your sister's name at the reaping," said Caesar, trying to restore order. It worked. Everyone quieted down to listen. "And you volunteered. Can you tell us about her?"

"No," Bellamy answered coldly. There was a moment of silence, then he sighed. "Octavia. She's fifteen. She is everything."

You could hear a pin drop in the City Circle now. Clarke realized she was holding her breath.

"What did she say to you? After the reaping?" Caesar asked sounding like he knew the answer to that.

"She asked me to win."

The audience was frozen, hanging on Bellamy's every word. Clarke couldn't take her eyes off him.

"And what did you say?" prompted Caesar gently.

"I swore I would."

"I bet you did," said Caesar. "Best of luck, Bellamy Blake, tribute from District 24."

The applause continued long after he was back on his seat. Abruptly, his eyes fell on Clarke's and he, quickly, looked away. But for the briefest of moments, a second that seemed not to have existed, Clarke thought she'd seen him smile.


End file.
